


Coping Skills

by betts



Series: Kinkmeme Fills [4]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Aftercare, Angst, BDSM, Barebacking, Cock Warming, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, Face Slapping, Humiliation, Jealousy, Piss kink, Possessive Behavior, Praise Kink, Psychopaths In Love, Punishment, Rape/Non-con Elements, Risk Aware Consensual Kink, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, WTFfic, golden showers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-07
Updated: 2019-02-07
Packaged: 2019-10-23 16:14:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17686793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/betts/pseuds/betts
Summary: For the prompt: Non-consensual golden showers. Bonus points if Bellamy has an extreme domination kink.





	Coping Skills

**Author's Note:**

> The non-con element here is a little complicated, hence the CNTW: Bellamy and Clarke are in a RACK scenario where Clarke voluntarily revokes her ability to consent. Ultimately, they do love each other, but that love is kind of fucked up. Please heed the tags.

She doesn’t know why she comes here. Why she does this to herself. Every week it’s the same. She has a couple glasses of wine and spirals into dark thoughts and texts him.

 _You’re pathetic_ , he tells her. _Come over_.  
  
She knocks on his door sometime past midnight and furtively glances around. A dog is barking in the distance, a car alarm blaring. A suspicious looking blue van is waiting a couple houses down. Drug bust, maybe. She’s in full contour, short bodycon dress, which seems useless considering what’s about to happen. She wiggles in the cold, teeth chattering. Her thighs are still slick.  
  
He opens the door. Shirtless, cigarette hanging out of his mouth, a fat black cat weaving around his ankles. He doesn’t say anything to her, just walks away from the door and slumps back onto the couch. On his big screen TV, Princess Donna is flogging a nameless porn star in a packed tavern. Some guy is coming on her face. Based on the loads of come already covering her, he's not the first.  
  
Clarke sets her purse down by the door, steps out of her heels. She takes off her dress and underwear efficiently and folds them, puts them on a chair. Her head is throbbing, hungover already and the night's not even over. She pulls her collar off the peg by the door — a leather thing, black and thin — and threads it around her neck. Wine always hits her the wrong way. She should have eaten something. At the couch, she kneels by his feet.  
  
He palms his soft dick over his boxers, ignoring her. Minutes pass. His cigarette dwindles in an ashtray. Several empty beer cans are stacked on the coffee table.   
  
“C’mere,” he says, spreading his legs. She obediently crawls between them. He pulls his cock out of the flap in his boxers, holds it at the base, half-mast. She wraps her lips around it, tongue darting around, head bobbing to get him hard. He grips her hair and shoves her mouth further onto him until her nose is pressed painfully to his pelvis, and his cock is stirring in her mouth.  
  
“Stay still.”  
  
She closes her eyes and listens to him pull another cigarette out and light it. Her head moves with the long drag of his breath. She holds her wrist behind her back. The carpet digs into her knees uncomfortably. Finally, finally her mind begins to quiet.  
  
Eventually her muscles stiffen and lock. Drool dribbles out of her mouth and her jaw aches. She wishes she had some say in this as much as she’s glad she doesn’t. Consent revoked the second she walks through the door, that’s the rules. She knows the risk. He can do anything she wants to her. That’s what she agreed to.  
  
He taps her cheek, a light slap. “Lift up.”  
  
She does, forcing herself not to wince. Her chin is wet with spit, rolling down her neck and chest. She made a puddle on his boxers. He’s still soft.  
  
He puts two fingers to her chin and lifts, leans forward and looks into her face. She prefers when he ignores her. His gaze is too intense. She comes here to be abused and neglected, not seen.   
  
“You got all pretty for me,” he says.   
  
“I had a date.”  
  
His eyebrows raise at the same time his eyes darken. “A date, huh? How’d it go?”  
  
“I’m here, aren’t I?”  
  
He slaps her, not hard enough. Not as hard as she can take. She moans anyway; her cunt throbs.  
  
“Don’t get mouthy with me, princess. I’m not in the mood.”  
  
“I fucked him. His come is still inside me.” She knows he hates the thought of her with other men, but he’d never do anything about it, admit he has feelings for her beyond their little set-up. She only goes on dates to piss him off, goad him into either extreme — loving her, or ruining her. With Bellamy Blake, there's no difference.   
  
A flare of anger crosses his face. He yanks her head back by the hair and leans down and kisses her, though it’s less a kiss than an attempt to devour her. He bites her so hard she bleeds, and when he lets her go, he’s finally hard.   
  
“What are you looking for tonight?” he asks, more to himself than to her. What she wants doesn’t matter. “You looking to hurt?”  
  
She stares at him, biting her own bloody tongue. If she answers, she’ll get hit.

He smiles slowly as an idea comes to him. That’s the allure — following the flow of his imagination, an endless well of abjection. He stands and snaps for her to follow. She crawls on her hands and knees behind him, up the stairs, collar jingling, but when she thinks he’s going to turn into his bedroom, he goes to the bathroom instead. She follows him inside, the tile grout grating against her sore knees.  
  
He whistles and points to the bathtub. She climbs in and sits on her heels. He drops his boxers and steps out of them, naked now, scratching his chest and watching her. Her saliva is drying all over her neck and chest. She doesn’t let herself hope while she’s here, but it would be nice to take a shower, get Finn’s come out of her, all this makeup off her face.  
  
Bellamy steps into the tub with her. His cock is still soft, not even trying to get hard. He pets her hair, which makes her suspicious. Normally the second they get upstairs everything is hard and fast and painful. Nipple clamps or a flail or hogtied. He has a St. Andrew’s Cross in the basement, and some weekends he ties her up and holds a hitachi to her and makes her come over and over, until she’s wailing and crying, weaving in and out of consciousness.  
  
“Open your mouth,” he says softly.   
  
She obediently opens her mouth. He presses the tip of his soft cock to her bottom lip. Even if she wanted to ask, she couldn’t, and if she struggles or moves away, he won’t let her come later. He’ll edge her for hours and then push her out the door and tell her she’s not allowed to come until she decides to follow the rules.   
  
The first hot splash on her tongue makes her jolt her head back, but he holds her steady. It takes her a few seconds to figure it out — she assumes, at first, that he’s coming on her tongue, but he’s not hard, and it’s not as thick as come. An acrid smell hits her nostrils. Then, as the single splash turns into a steady stream, she tries to pull away. His cock slips from her lips, but his piss continues, down her chin, neck, chest, between her legs. She didn’t sign up for this. He’s done everything to her, she didn’t think she had any boundaries, but she found one.  
  
“Stop,” she says, pushing away from him, trying to climb out of the tub. “Bellamy, no, stop.”  
  
He pulls her hair so hard she yelps. “You don’t get to say no.”  
  
The piss has stopped for the moment, and she’s still fighting against him, but the tub is slippery, and he has her firmly on her knees.   
  
“Give up.” He shoves her down until her forehead is touching the bottom of the tub. She’s crying, heart pounding. One of his hands slips away and comes back quickly with something soft, terrycloth belt from his bathrobe. He brings her hands behind her back and ties them. “Now sit up and calm down.”  
  
She does as she’s told. “Please don’t. Please.”  
  
Begging only makes him do the opposite of what she wants, but she has to try. Her scalp is throbbing with the tight hold he has on her hair, headache flaring behind her eyes.  
  
“Open your mouth.”  
  
She tries to shake her head but can’t. “No.”  
  
“Open your mouth or it’s going in your eyes.”  
  
She forces her mouth open and squeezes her eyes shut, and seconds later, his piss is coating her tongue. Her throat refuses to swallow it, closes up, so it fills all the way and overflows, down her chin. It’s hot and pungent. He breathes out a low moan.  
  
“You look so good like this, princess. Covered in my piss.”  
  
It’s in her hair, over her cheeks, trickling down her tits. Then it stops, and she breathes a sigh of relief. He pushes her head down again to the bottom of the tub and says, “Stay.”

Maybe he’ll fuck her now, and it’ll feel good, and she’ll take his come and go home. He steps behind her, lowers himself to his knees, and his cock presses at her cunt, but it’s still not hard. He’s sliding the head of his limp cock into her pussy, and before she can react, he starts pissing again. She’s so busy being stunned and adjusting to the feeling that she doesn’t think to struggle. It settles inside her and slips out, trickles down her thighs. She feels so full of him, and still full of Finn’s come. The stream seems endless. He pulls out and presses the tip of his cock to her asshole, but she clenches down so he can’t enter her, at least not without being hard, and he pisses over her ass and back. He climbs to his feet and lets loose the rest of it, no longer a steady trickle but gushing over her naked body. She’s weeping and her mind is blank and she swears this time is the last time, she’ll never come back. This time, she really means it.  
  
Finally it stops. She’s soaked. Her makeup is melting down her face. He turns on the shower and the water is ice cold for a second before warming. He jostles her up by the throat until she’s standing on shaking legs, and shoves her under the spray. She opens her mouth and lets the shower water cover her tongue, then spits it out, anything to get out the taste of his piss. Her restraints are growing heavy and sodden.  
  
“Sure you want to keep seeing other guys, princess?" he says in her ear. "I can make it so much worse.”  
  
She doesn’t have to speak. It’s not much, but she’s allowed to be silent. He wraps his arm around her front and fingers her. Two slide into her easily.   
  
“Is this your boyfriend’s come? Or are you wet for me?” He rolls his fingers over her clit, the way he knows brings her to the edge quickly. No one knows her body as well as he does. “Get turned on taking my piss?”  
  
She’s not going to come. She’s not. She doesn’t have to. The spray of the water is hot, pounding against her face, thankfully drowning out the smell.   
  
“Don’t hold back on me, baby. I know you want to. You’ve been bad but I’ll let you this time. Don’t even have to ask.”  
  
She tries not to. Tries to clench down and think of how it felt to drink his piss — debased, humiliated. The more she thinks about it, the hotter she gets. He pissed all over her, to keep her from seeing other guys. She feels so owned, more than she does when he only ties her up and hits her and fucks her. He’s marked her. She’s his.  
  
Her orgasm crests over her hard and fast. She goes limp, but he holds her up, flicks her clit a little while longer, and she comes again thinking about his piss in her cunt.   
  
“That’s right, knew you liked it, dirty girl. Slut for anything I give you. Pathetic.”  
  
She gains her footing again, and he unties her wrists. Gets a bar of soap and washes her thoroughly. Hands her a cloth to wipe her makeup off. Then he shampoos her hair, massages her scalp. She slips into the space that offers her a semblance of peace, the nothingness he takes her to, so she doesn’t have to think about anything that’s happened to her, not her mother’s drug addiction or her father’s death. The nothingness of their arrangement. Bellamy's gift to her.  
  
He tips her hair under the spray and and rinses the shampoo out, kisses her throat above the collar. Like a light switch, salty to sweet, cruel to kind. She's had her punishment, now she gets her reward.  
  
“Good girl,” he mutters. “So good for me.”  
  
The water shuts off and he steps out of the tub, gets her a towel and dries her off meticulously, all the way down to each individual finger. He guides her to the sink and puts toothpaste on the toothbrush she keeps here. She brushes her teeth mindlessly, avoiding her own gaze in the mirror. He rubs her lower back, kisses her shoulder, thumbs at her collar. She spits. He hands her a towel to wipe her mouth, and guides her into the bedroom, on two legs this time.  
  
He has a king-sized bed with high thread-count sheets and more pillows than god. When she first started coming here, almost a year ago now, she told herself it was for the comfort of his bed. She couldn’t keep up that lie for long.

He’s silent now, no princess or baby, no insults. He kisses her deeply and touches her softly, slides inside her, unprotected, not caring she'd just been barebacked by a total stranger hours ago. He fucks her slowly, hits all the spots she needs, fills her so full she has no room for pain or heartache. When she comes, he silences her shouts with his mouth, and when he comes shortly after, he pushes in as far as he can go, as if by spilling his seed deeper inside her, he lays a stronger claim.  
  
After, he kisses her eyelids, her nose, her mouth. He rubs her back until she grows drowsy. He tells her how good she is, how beautiful, all the words she needs to hear except the three he'll never say.   
  
The next morning, she wakes up first like she always does, aching and sore, soul weighing less than it had the day before. She revels in the the temporary reprieve he offers, the morning afters. An addiction. She climbs out of bed silently. Normally, she sneaks downstairs, dresses, takes off her collar, and leaves before he wakes up. This time, he catches her by the wrist.  
  
“Clarke,” he says, voice low and gritty with sleep. He never calls her by her name.  
  
“What?”  
  
He sits up, brings her naked body between his knees, wraps his arms around her. She does the same to him, running her fingers down the muscles of his back.  
  
"Don't go." He lays kisses on her stomach, presses his head against her as if he wants to climb inside. Become one person instead of two, and finally find peace.  
  
“I'll stay if you tell me the truth,” she says. "I'll stay forever if you tell me the truth."  
  
“You know the truth.”   
  
“I’ll stop seeing other people.”  
  
He looks up at her, pretty eyes sad in the morning light. “Maybe next week."

It’s what he said last week. It’s what he’ll always say. She pulls away from him, slinks down the stairs, and tells herself this is the last time.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm bettsfic on tumblr, twitter, and dw.


End file.
